Curtain Call
by JuxtaposedAlbatross
Summary: During his final moments, Roach recalls the tragic comedy of his life leading up to this point, but most importantly, his relationship with the man who managed to accompany him through it all. GhostxRoach, Yaoi.
1. Prologue

This has been on my computer for months, but I've been sort of hesitant to post it up. I took quite a few liberties with the development of Roach's character, so I'd be _very_ grateful if you'd share your criticism and opinions with me regarding this matter. Actually, a review on what you think of the story as a whole would be extremely helpful as well. I'd like to write the next parts according to what you guys think so far.

Anyways, I've been really wanting to delve into this fanfiction for quite some time. I'm excited to finally post my progress! :D

Rated M for violence (if that bothers you then why are you even in this category?), language, drug abuse, some porno magazines, and future...well...I think we know why you came here in the first place.

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* * *

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_The pulsing in his ears blocked out the erratic sloshing of gasoline as it was draped over his motionless form, the greasy liquid seeping through his clothes barely comprehensible in its purpose to his dwindling remains of consciousness. _

_Above head, the clouds rolled along lazily, obliviously, traitorously; refusing to acknowledge the sight playing out below them. The sight only they would be alive to recount, the scene imprinted forever against the hazing blue sky._

_God, even the pain had gone, had never even been there to begin with. Nothing left but a numb body and a barely lucid perception of the enclosing presence of death. Nothing mattered anymore, the battle fought for naught, the ache endured for nothing. Nothing remained, nothing, not even the anger, the sorrow, the fucking horror that should have swelled within him the moment he weakly turned his head to stare once again into the masked face beside him, the eyes obscured by that ever-present pair of red sunglasses._

_Nothing. _

_There was no point in caring about anything anymore. _

_And as the soldier above finished his preparatory task, withdrawing from the pre-prepared gravesite, Roach couldn't resist the gradual magnetic pull between his eyelids. This battle, at least, was finally over. He could finally close the curtains once and for all._

_He just wished he could've done it alone._

"_Simon."_


	2. Chapter 1

"Lieutenant!"

The voice sounded above the heavy firing of assault rifles and foreign curses of enemy soldiers as the elite members of Task Force 141 pushed through the rival bunker laboriously, sprawled behind an array of makeshift cover as they drew closer and closer to their objective. Bullets bit into the dust-coated floor, kicking up a disorienting layer of red mist that, combined with bright bursts of gunfire from every direction, obscured the lines between friend and foe. The only certainty was that the intel they were after lay beyond the heavily guarded and remotely locked entry just ahead, still inaccessible to the frantic soldiers.

"Ghost, open the damn door already!" Roach called out again, ducking behind an ammo crate before scanning the chaos in search of the familiar skull-printed mask.

"Almost there," the skilled hacker replied edgily, his voice disembodied by the deafening explosion of a nearby grenade, "Give me another minute."

"We don't have another minute! Enemy re-enforcements are on the way!" Roach swiveled his head back towards the battlefield just in time to melee an approaching attacker, ramming the butt of his M16 into the nose of the assailant and earning a sharp yell as brain was punctured by broken fragments of skull.

"Shit, I know!" the response came once again in the form of exasperation, tension apparent in his usually composed voice. "Hold on!"

With shaky hands, Roach reloaded another magazine into the carbine, pure adrenaline pumping through his veins as the anguished cry of a fellow teammate fell upon his ears. It was only a matter of time before they were entirely flanked by their Russian enemies, and unless Ghost lifted the emergency lock to their only hope of survival soon, it didn't seem so unfathomable that death would find all of them here. The difference was a matter of mere seconds.

"Got it! It's open!"

It was all he needed to hear, promptly pulling the pin out from the readied flashbang before tossing it in front of the opening metal doors, reprieving his cover to follow his teammates forward in a charge.

Alien orders barked from all sides, the frustrated cries signaling an imminent anti-terrorist victory despite the continued firing into the vacated opposition's ground. Figures swam maniacally through the whitewash, gunfire alight in all directions, as Roach made out the head of the group diving past the metallic doorway just before his face was abruptly jerked forward and towards the bloodstained earth.

"Alright, I've got the objective! Proceed to exit route – we got two minutes before the whole place blows!" a friendly voice rang out, earning the approving grunts of already fleeing operatives.

Roach coughed violently, a clump of red dust having been forcibly shoved down his throat by the fall. His foot was tangled in something - that he could tell - but what in God's name it was he couldn't. Upon hearing the retreat of his team, he opened his mouth to shout back but found his lungs still coated in grime, instead doubling over to continue coughing. The frenetic cries of nearby enemies only made the situation seem more dire as he managed to prop himself back up enough to examine the barbed wire carefully entwined around his leg, wincing when he realized that his struggling had dug the barbs further into the coarse fabric of his cargos to the point where they had begun to nestle into the skin beneath.

"Fuck," he breathed, scrambling for his combat knife as the blinding effects of the flash grenade began to wear off; along with it, his cover.

And then the skull balaclava flashed in front of his face, the wire already sawed through by the same quick hands that yanked him back onto his feet, swinging one of his arms over the neck of his savior before jetting off in the direction of safety.

"Shit, Roach. Great time to take a nap." The masked voice panted, straining with the burden of sprinting for two people instead of one.

Struggling to keep up with his newly wounded leg, Roach exhaled sharply in a thankful groan. He could still feel the barbs embedded in his flesh, twisting deeper into the wounds as he hobbled along beside Ghost. "Sorry…sir."

"Just shut up, will ya?"

* * *

"You know, I should report you for insubordination."

Roach exhaled sharply, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a sleeved arm before looking towards the masked face of his superior. The red-tinted sunglasses disguised the direction of Ghost's gaze, but Roach was positive that they were studying him inquiringly, if not almost amusedly.

"I apologize, Lieutenant. I guess I was just a little hyped up back there."

"A little, yes. Enough to bark orders at me like I was the sergeant and not the commander of the team."

"Right. Yes, sir. Sorry, sir." Roach made for a mock salute, grinning despite himself.

As far as superior officers went, Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley was about as relaxed with the ranking system as they came. Reliable enough to be second-in-command under Capt. MacTavish, Ghost was generally regarded by the team as the go-to man for any unforeseen problem on the battlefield. His incredible hacking skills and sharpshooter abilities had also earned him a fair amount of respect among his comrades, Roach in particular. Since his entrance into Task Force 141, Gary "Roach" Sanderson had been assigned under the command of the Englishman and had witnessed firsthand his superior officer's finesse under pressure. Today's victory was not unlike their usual day on the job.

"Nevermind it; the important thing is that we secured the objective and got out of there alive." The lieutenant cast an absentminded glance out the open side of the helicopter, observing the thick cloud of destruction remaining on the edge of the horizon. "Bloody Hell."

Roach seconded the thought silently, turning his attention back towards the throbbing pain in his leg. The medic had done a relatively thorough job of removing the sharp metal and bandaging the wound, but it still hurt like a bitch. Nothing he couldn't handle, just a minor set-back, but the thought that his one little misstep had come close to assuring certain death left him slightly shaken, no matter how much he didn't want to admit it. The stress of combat had already left permanent damage to his psyche, one he'd be paying for with expensive prescription drugs for the rest of his life, yet it never ceased to amaze him how, after all this time, he'd still wake up screaming in the night, drawing his gun on an invisible enemy, downing more than the recommended dose of sleeping pills with a bitter side of whiskey only to wake up two hours later to be dragged off to another battlefront. What a life.

But…it was too addicting to quit.

"Y'alright?"

Roach blinked slowly, extracting himself from his thoughts before turning to give a strained smile and nod in Ghost's direction. God, how he needed some alcohol.

* * *

Roach sighed as he ducked under the icy water of the showerhead, the chilly blast a welcome reprieve from his sweat-drenched layers of clothing. A long day of battle would do that to you, make it feel like an impenetrable layer of grime had latched onto your skin, the only cure for which was a shower cold enough to freeze your bones.

"Feels nice, don't it?" someone remarked abstractly to no-one in particular, earning a couple of short grunts from other members, but no verbal response. Most were only inclined to speak when giving or receiving orders on the battlefield anyways. Yeah, with this group, a grunt was an acceptable response for almost anything.

After a few minutes under the relentless cascading of erratic water pressure, Roach swiveled the handle off and slung a towel around his waist as he stepped out of the shower room. It was a short walk to the room he shared with a new recruit, as he was expected to teach the new kid the ropes despite being a recent transfer himself. It had definitely been an upgrade from his old military post, to be placed amongst the ranks of the greatest covert ops in the world, yet it still got a bit overwhelming at times. The constant shadow of death was, at the very least.

Without bothering to knock, Roach strode into the small living quarters, cursing meanwhile as another sharp pain shot through his injured leg, before throwing the towel to the floor and proceeding to ransack his drawers for a pair of boxers. The FNG had yet to return, so he slid them on and yanked out his secret stash of porno mags from under the mattress, lazily flopping back down on the bed to flip through the pages. He quickly discarded the first one, unsatisfied with the dull images of topless women, and bent down to pick up another, hopefully more racy one. Not much else in this one either.

He'd made it through about half the stack before he realized that they just weren't doing it for him today. Even despite his desperate need to release tension, nothing but the earlier incident could remain on the forefront of his mind. The familiar skull balaclava flashed through his head at the thought, and he quietly resolved to re-thank Ghost for his assistance. Even if he had managed to unattach himself from the wire, he wasn't so sure that he would have been able to hobble safely out of the way in time before the detonation.

"Roach, you in there?"

He almost jumped at the sound of his nickname coming from the other side of the flimsy wooden door, especially because of who he recognized the voice of. Quickly tossing the magazine to the floor and propping himself up to a sitting position, he answered:

"Yeah, sure. Come in, Lieutenant."

The door yawned open as a maskless Simon Riley slipped into the room, a small smile playing on one corner of his mouth. He had obviously just finished showering, dark blonde hair tousled and dripping, yet he was dressed as if he were about to head out again and not attempt grab a few hours of sleep before dawn.

"How's the leg?" Ghost asked, shutting the door behind him as he moved to sit at the edge of the unoccupied bed. Despite his generally cheery demeanor, Roach silently noted the distinct bags under his eyes and a certain pallor to his face that the mask would've hidden earlier.

"Been better. I forgot to thank you again for saving my ass back there, though."

Ghost shook his head dismissively, "Spare the thanks, mate. I didn't do anything you wouldn't have done for me."

Roach shrugged in acknowledgement, accepting that as the truth. He would never willingly leave a comrade behind on the battlefield, not if he could help it. Ghost obviously and unsurprisingly felt the same way.

"But what about you? Where're you going?" Roach gestured towards the Englishman's fully-dressed appearance. Hell, he had even put his combat boots back on.

"Ah, MacTavish has got me workin' overtime. Need to tie up a few loose ends elsewhere before morning." The lieutenant smirked tiredly, letting his eyes wander around the small room until they set on the unconcealed stack of magazines littering the floor. "Oh, I'm sorry. Did I interrupt something?"

"Nah," Roach diverted his eyes, knowing that the sarcastically insincere apology was very well intended to make him feel embarrassed, trying to brush the comment off as inconsequential. "I've got too much on my mind anyways."

A rogue thought drifted back to the surplus of sleeping pills he had stashed in the closet, and he wondered gravely if they'd be sufficient enough to get him through tonight's nightmares. He had learned the hard way that when roommates were involved, it was best not to wake up in a panicked daze with a fully loaded pistol in your hands. Accidentally firing into the wall had once earned him two months of latrine duty back in the army, an incident he had managed to clean off his record by volunteering yet another month. He'd be damned if some nameless FNG saw him at that kind of low point: he'd take at least three tonight to be safe.

"Yeah, well, join the club, bug. It's hard enough to get a decent amount of sleep around here, much less jack-off. No privacy either."

Roach nodded awkwardly in agreement, mind still elsewhere.

"Alright. Well, I better get a move on. Soap'll be wonderin' where I ran off to." The lieutenant made to stand, clapping a reassuring hand on one of Roach's shoulders. "Feel better, Sergeant."

Roach glanced up to lock eyes with the familiar silver ones, seeing in them a brief flash of something unidentifiable before they returned to their usual impassiveness. The fingers on his shoulder squeezed slightly as if for assurance. Another weak smile later and Ghost was gone, leaving just as silently as he had come in, nothing remaining of his presence aside from the remembrance of that reassuring touch. But, it didn't seem reassuring. Not to Roach. It was almost…disturbing…that crack of unreadable emotion in his superior officer's expression.

Roach shook off the oddity, already searching through his pile of meds in conquest of the sleeping pills.

That emotion…

His fingers found their way around the recognizable white bottle, popping the lid open with a single thumb.

What the hell was it?

A quick jerk of the bottle spilled four pills into his hand. With an indiscreet vigor, Roach tossed them into his mouth, swallowing the cylindrical capsules without a second thought. Nothing seemed more pressing at the moment than a few dreamless hours of sleep.

"Fuck it."

Roach collapsed back onto the stiff mattress, awaiting the darkness to settle.


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N: I must be on a role today; my second upload, just a few hours after the first. I guess it's just my way of apologizing to all the people who hope I keep updating...so sorry for all the procrastination.**

**Anyways, to anyone who has previously commented / alterted / favorited this story, I hope you haven't already forgotten about this story (lol), because although it may have looked like it, I definitely have not. Just had to finish a couple chapters for RTH before I felt safe updating on another story. XD I really do intend to continue this one, so anyone who has the time for a review, I'll love you forever if I can find out if someone out there is actually enjoying this (because for some reason, FF has stopped counting the views on my stories..._). Feedback increased my desire to write. :3**

**Rated M for violence and strong language (and future other stuff! ;D)**

* * *

A whistle shrieked across the desert sands as Roach emptied the last of his ammo into the tattered target, its entire midsection completely eaten away by bullet holes.

"Break for lunch. Be back at the range in 15."

Roach lowered his gun, breathing heavily beneath the cloth mask shielding his face from the sand. Out of the corner of his goggles, he noted the soldiers on either side of him rising from crouched positions, casually ripping off their balaclavas. Even so, Roach made no efforts to remove himself from the spot, itching to reload his gun and fire off another round. His trigger finger almost twitched with anticipation.

"Sanderson. Break." Repeated the Captain, sounding distracted beneath the ruckus other task members were starting to conjure up. "And go fetch Ghost while yer at it."

Roach leaned back on his haunches, casting one more wayward look out at the shooting range before pulling himself up to standing position, rolling his shoulders to relieve the tension that had begun to accumulate there. The sniper tower was a good five minutes away on foot, and another few up and back. By the time he'd return, he figured they'd be at the targets again, squeezing off cartridges happily. There wasn't much of a point to alert the lieutenant of the halt in action, but Roach acknowledged that the task had most likely been given to draw him away from the range for a bit.

Regardless, Roach did not question his superior officer's orders, opting instead to sling his weapon behind his shoulder and reply with a quick "yes sir" before setting out on his mission.

Overhead another fighter plane roared past, kicking up the orange sand in the wake of its jets. Small sandstorms roved continually across the dunes, one of which collided into the metallic structure of the tower as Roach made his way up it, finally stepping through the open threshold of the top bunker.

Lying against the far wall, Ghost had pulled his mask up just enough to smoke, an already half-finished cigarette lying between his gloved fingers. His sniper rifle was propped up in a parallel fashion against the concrete.

"How's it goin', bug?" The lieutenant grinned, puffing out a cloud of smoke before drawing the cigarette back to his lips. His trademark sunglasses were tinted burgundy under the guise of shadow, effectively hiding his eyes and reflecting a hint of the midday sun and the heavily clothed form of Roach as he stepped in past the doorway.

"Captain's called for a break, sir." He responded, adjusting the weapon over his shoulder so it would sit more comfortably.

"Ah, well, a bit late for that." Ghost muttered, exhaling once more before patting the floor to his side in a beckoning gesture. "Damn wind's got my aim off today anyways."

Roach reluctantly obliged, vaguely wondering what MacTavish would do if he didn't report back to the range as instructed, but was more inclined to sit under the shade for a while regardless. As he sat, Ghost held out the cigarette in offering, shrugged when Roach waved it away, and went back to inhaling the poisonous fumes.

They sat there, a moment of silence interrupted only by the howling of the winds outside. The weeks since securing the coveted Russian intel had been long, uneventful, and largely anticipatory. It was only a matter of time before the trail to Makarov was found once again and the hunt would start anew, but for now, there was nothing to do but practice and practice and wait. The tedious routine seemed more suited to an army outfit rather than an elite force of special ops, as Roach contemplated for the fourth time that day. Certain members of the Task Force had, however, been leaving base on a regular basis, one of which sat beside him now, almost contemplative in his current demeanor.

"Any news on Makarov?" Roach inquired, leaning the back of his head against the wall as he stared up at the barren ceiling.

There was another momentary pause as Ghost snuffed out what remained of the cancer stick, laying his elbows back down on his knees. "Not quite. The dogs have been unsurprisingly loyal to their masters; just a matter of time, though. I always manage to break them."

Roach shut his eyes, recounting the sole interrogation he had witnessed all those months back, the indifference with which Ghost had handled the situation as his victim's countenance dwindled to the point of begging for death, a reward not granted to him until after he had betrayed his comrades. The after-image of the smiling skeletal mask and the lieutenant's blood-stained hands, slowly cleansing the instruments of torture under a rusty faucet, was one that had stayed with him.

"But we do have reason to believe that he's hiding out in a small town a couple hundred miles north of Moscow. It wouldn't surprise me if we're headin' out there any day now."

"Perfect." Roach mumbled, half-sarcastic, half-relieved. "My trigger finger's been itching for some blood."

Ghost snorted beside him, "Fuck yeah, bug. Fuck yeah."

* * *

Footfalls crunched dead leaves as Roach and the rest of the team followed the lieutenant up the vacant rural street, heads swiveling around to check for signs of movement. Nothing but empty houses encased by brittle skeletons of trees, deserted roadways, and dark skies hovering ominously above. Enemy resistance had been inconsequential to this point: a sign of covert operations or a set-up? They all wondered it, had relayed their cautions to command, but were ordered to carry out the mission regardless. They were too close not to discover the truth.

"Sir, helicopter's picking up no hostiles in the area," the gravelly voice of the radio relayed to Ghost.

He cast a furtive glance sideways down the adjacent street before directing the group forward, reaching up to angle the headset below his mouth, "Copy that. Mission stands. We can't be sure if they're interfering with our equipment or not yet."

Roach tightened the fingers on his rifle out of sheer reflex, always tensed to expect the worst. Sleep deprivation had made him jittery to say the least, adrenaline now the only source of his constant action. He was a coiled snake ready to spring.

As the destination – a ramshackle building with poorly boarded windows – came into sight, Ghost divided the team into their respective groups, sending them on routes to surround the house from all angles. Once all targets were in position, he signaled the forward movement of what remained of his subordinates, Roach following his lead cautiously, sweeping the seemingly empty establishment with wary eyes, his rifle on call at even the slightest foreign movement. The apparent absence of civilians made his job a little easier in that respect.

"Location confirmed. Moving onwards." Ghost radioed in as he led the way through the few abandoned cars littering the streets, his expression unreadable as always behind the grinning skull balaclava.

Once the team had reached the doorway unopposed, Ghost flattened his back against the structure, instructing the others to do the same on either side of the entry-way.

"Roach," he nodded to the sergeant opposite him, "plant the C4."

Obediently, Roach drew out the bundle of explosives and fixated them to the middle of the rusted steel door. Once they were set, he stepped off to the side, clutching the switch with one hand and his rifle's trigger with the other.

"On my cue," the lieutenant cautioned.

He breathing out slowly and readying himself for whatever lay ahead. He knew his suspicion of the falsity of this lead was not his alone, that it was shared by his superior and comrades alike, but the intel pointing to this particular location had been too credible to ignore. The only thing left to do was verify it themselves.

"Do it."

Roach jammed his thumb down on the button and tossed the controller to the ground, repositioning both hands on his gun as the team filed in through the wake of the detonation.

Empty. The room was barren aside from a few discarded pieces of furniture and peeling wallpaper, void of any signs of recent life. The stairs leading to the second story were partially caved it, the hallway filled with nothing more than dust and rotting wood.

"Search the area," Ghost instructed, the barrel of his gun leading him down the hall.

As the other two operatives made for the stairs, Roach followed his superior closely behind, peering into adjacent rooms as they proceeded with vigilance. Every single room resembled the front of the house in condition; there was no sign whatsoever of inhabitants. But as Roach had once learned the hard way, that meant nothing in his line of work. All it took was one well-placed bullet to the head and even the most elite of soldiers would die like an inexperienced private. The thought had him glancing at the lieutenant, inadvertently picturing the scenario playing out in his mind.

"Roach."

He followed Ghost's gesture to an uneven section of flooring near the end of the hallway. A dusty tarp was partially covering the edge of the area, but it's haphazard, discarded state did appear more forced than the rest of the junk lying about. It gave off all the signs of hiding something not meant to be found.

"Blueprints showed a basement level," Ghost murmured, repositioning the microphone in front of his mouth to signal a caution to the waiting troops outside.

Roach warily bent down to examine the buckled floor, running a gloved hand over a nearly invisible schism in the wooden boards. He traced the division in a square-like pattern large enough for a man to squeeze through on the floor, noting what appeared to be a broken padlock lying under the guise of the tarp before withdrawing his combat knife and looking back up at Ghost for permission to proceed.

At the go-ahead nod, Roach knelt to pry open the trap door, sliding his blade between the crevice in search of an internal lock. The lieutenant watched on, his gun trained on the floor in anticipation, as they both wordlessly prepared themselves for whatever they would discover.

"I've got it." Roach whispered, securing the knife back into its holster as the latch unlocked. "Permission to proceed, sir?"

"Granted."

Before Roach could move to lift the door, the sound of gunshots outside alerted both to confirmed enemy presence.

"Shit." Ghost swiveled towards the blown-out doorway at the end of the hall, catching sight of a troop of guerillas emerging from the building across the street. "Open it, Roach!"

The sergeant scrambled to yank open the entranceway, his superior crouching beside him, keeping his barrel trained on the street outside. As soon as the door had been opened, Roach jumped down into the level below, immediately rolling to break his short fall. He heard Ghost's gun fire off above, and tried not to dwell on it as he frantically assessed his surroundings.

There was nothing, no-one, aside from a discarded pile of weapons on the floor and an assortment of destroyed machinery – with the hard drives removed, Roach noted upon quick inspection. Footprints in the dust told the story of a hasty retreat.

They were too late.

A cease in shooting above him snapped Roach back into the dilemma at hand.

"Ghost!" he shouted, scrambling back towards the dilapidated ladder leading up to the open hatch above.

A string of curses served as the only response before he emerged and spotted his superior slightly further down the hall than he had been before, crouched behind a flimsy pile of rubble with his gun still trained on the open doorway. Several corpses now littered the inside of the building, some still clutching at their guns, others sprawled too haphazardly to resemble anything once alive and moving. All had been virtually armorless, an unequal match against the prepared soldiers of the Task Force 141. If Makarov had felt threatened by their knowledge of his whereabouts, unsure of his ability to escape safely and on-time, there would have been more resistance prepared.

The circumstances proved that the trip here had been a wasted one.

"We were too late." Roach shuffled across the floorboards to position himself next to the lieutenant, crouching beside him in a mimicking manner.

"Fuck, I know. We were fuckin' set up."

Roach glanced away from the doorway to look at Ghost, who had already removed his finger from the trigger and dropped the barrel's sights to the floor. His eyes were immediately drawn upwards by a subtle spattering of blood on his superior's uniform to the distinguishable absence of the red sunglasses on his face, which he noticed only then were partially cracked and broken on the floorboard between them.

Ghost noticed the sergeant's attention and followed his gaze to the broken sunglasses.

"Close call," he muttered bitterly in response, "Bastards might've been ill-advised, but they were shooting to kill."

Roach's eyes flickered back up to Ghost's face, noticing only then the dark moisture beginning to seep through the side of the balaclava, and the subtly ripped path the grazing bullet had made - only mere centimeters away from puncturing the skull.

"Shit." He all but dropped his gun to reach forward and seize his superior's face, pulling himself closer to examine the wound. "Fuck."

"I'm fine," Ghost diverted his eyes back towards the doorway, but didn't move to raise his gun. The ceasefire outside had virtually confirmed that all remaining guerilla troops had been neutralized, that there was no longer any threat to be concerned with, especially since it had already been confirmed that the former hide-out had been long since abandoned. He took the opportunity to quickly radio in the mission's failure, grateful at least that his ear piece was on the opposite side of his head.

"That's a lot of blood to be just 'fine'," Roach nearly growled, trying to assess the extent of the wound without having to prod or adjust the fabric covering it. From what he could tell, it had dug at least a centimeter into the side of the cheek, barely missing the ear, and had emerged just aside the temple, perhaps nicking the side of the skull in the process. It looked painful as hell, but the look in the lieutenant's gray eyes did not reflect any hurt, simply the sort of anxious tension found on a soldier's face following a harrowing encounter.

It struck Roach as odd, consequently, to see such a normal expression on his characteristically stoic superior's face; Ghost rarely, if ever, removed his sunglasses on the battlefield. It somehow reminded Roach of that night, the one after his barbed wire injury, of the strange display of emotion that had come across the lieutenant's face. His eyes had been somewhat stormy then as well, their usual aloof façade temporarily disrupted by something else. Roach couldn't help but wonder how much more expressive the lieutenant was when nobody was paying close enough attention. The ever-smiling skull balaclava seemed to leer at him in response.

"It's best we head out," Ghost moved to stand, shifting away from the sergeant's grasp on his chin. The operatives that had been staked out on the top story emerged finally, making their way down what was left of the stairs.

Above head, the helicopter roared past, already on its way back to base.

* * *

**A/N: Things will probably pick up much faster from now on, as I don't intend for this to be an incredibly lengthy fic. And I apologize to anyone who finds fault in my military lingo / scene descriptions / realism because the Call of Duty franchise is all I'm basing this off of. I even had to Wikipedia some things. XD**

**Thanks for reading! (and maybe reviewing!)**


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N: Well, it's been a little while, but luckily no-one seems to be reading this story, so nobody probably cares (lolcry). **

**This chapter took forever to write because it's around 4500 words long (holy CHEEZITS!), went through a ton of revisions, and I've been working on RTH (if I have anyone reading both - I'm about half-way through the next chapter, so hopefully I'll get it out soon).**

**Anyways, to anyone still sticking with me (and I won't know to thank you personally ****unless you review!~), I really appreicate it. I want to finish this story and actually know now the direction it's heading, but it's laughable how reviewed my other story (RTH) is compared to this one, so I've gotta set out on finishing the next chapter of that first. Reviews make me want to please the fans (*wink wink nudge nudge*).**

**Regardless, I thank everyone for stopping by to read. :)**

* * *

_The knife plunged into his throat, ripping the flesh with grisly precision as it punctured deeper, deeper into tissue. Beneath the surface, the blood welled, pressurized from a severed artery, stifled only by the sliver of metal. _

_He tried to scream, but his lungs were filling with liquid. Bloody bile poured out instead. There was no hope, no chance of survival, just the grinning face of death. _

_Death._

Roach awoke with a start, forehead clammy and damp with sweat. He was still on base, still in the small, harmless room he had once shared with that nameless FNG. The kid had been killed last week.

With a shaky palm, he slowly ran a hand through his tousled hair, glancing towards the small, digital clock at his bedside: 3:17 AM. He wouldn't need to be up for another few hours, but the thought of declining back into sticky bed sheets to face whatever else lay in the recesses of his mind left him with little choice in the matter. He was completely out of sleeping pills.

Roach groaned as he kicked off the remaining covers and swung his legs over the side of the mattress. His head throbbed with a combination of sleep deprivation and withdrawal; his body craved the numbing effects of the pills and their heavily induced slumber. He'd need to get another source of supply immediately, though where, he didn't know. The task force medic had already rationed him enough to last another few weeks, and if he hadn't been popping them as often as he did, they probably would've. Things seemed to get a lot more complicated where dependence was involved.

Roach supposed that since his supply had run dry, he'd gotten no more than a couple hours of sleep a night, as his dreams were often plagued by memories, by fears, by thoughts that he managed to elude during his waking hours. His current inability to escape them was driving him mad with anxiety. The lieutenant had noticed it, too.

"Fuck," he muttered to the empty room, furiously rubbing tired eyes with his palms.

By the time he'd found and thrown on some casual gear – as today was another 'down' day at the base, at least until further notice – Roach noted the clock's sloth-like advancement to 3:19 AM. The thought of a shower came and went, knowing that after a few hours of drills and training he'd only need another one, but a quick brush across his jawbone told Roach that he had a definite need to shave.

The door latch clicked shut, the sound briefly shattering the quiet of the empty hallway, until the only noise being made was that of Roach's boots making their way across the floorboards. This sector of the base was utterly silent, its inhabitants catching what little shut-eye they could manage before the coming morning, but Roach knew that elsewhere on the compound a shift was just ending for some.

Sure enough, as he reached the communal bathroom, the sounds of voices echoed out from behind the shower wall. A welcome distraction from his thoughts, Roach listened in as he began to massage shaving cream onto his jaw.

"Damn MacTavish throwin' us all on the graveyard shift," an unrecognizable voice grumbled through the hiss of running water.

"Christ, I know. Nothing much we can do about it, though," the second grunted, a voice that held some familiarity but not enough for Roach to identify. There were too many soldiers to keep track of, always being replaced. They were all so expendable.

Roach cringed as the razor nicked his skin, cursing as he moved to splash the wound with water.

"Least we ain't got the luck of the lieutenant."

His hands paused momentarily under the running faucet.

"Ghost? Yeah. Soap's been bustin' his ass over Makarov lately. 'S been makin' the guy work through the bloody night for the last couple a' weeks."

"It's gonna be like that 'til we find him. And we were so fucking close last time."

"Yeah. 'S just a matter of time."

_Just a matter of time_, Roach repeated in his head, fingers clenching the razor handle a little tighter than necessary. _Just a matter of time._

* * *

He didn't really know what he was doing here, but it somehow seemed appropriate for a reason he couldn't quite justify.

Overhearing the brief conversation in the bathroom had sent his mind elsewhere, away from his own troubles and towards those of his team - one man in particular. It wasn't unusual to feel sympathy for a fellow comrade; there was nothing strange about that. Yet it felt weird to be standing in front of his superior's room like this with nothing to say, devoid of any purpose.

The more he thought about it, the less sense it made, so he ceased thinking about it completely and instead raised his knuckles to knock on the door.

A moment of silence and then, "Yeah?"

Roach noted the agitated tone of the replying voice, somewhat surprised that a response had come at all. He had half anticipated Ghost to be either asleep or still on call, and it wasn't until then that he realized he hadn't been expecting an answer.

"Um," he began, feeling like a total idiot for disturbing the lieutenant after he had just heard how little time off he seemed to have these days. "Sorry. Nevermind."

Before he could turn and awkwardly retreat back to his own quarters, the door swung open, revealing the lightly composed visage of his superior's unmasked face. The faint bags under his eyes betrayed the carefree smile that greeted Roach, but the voice with which he spoke differed enormously from the previous.

"Well bloody good mornin', bug. What are you doing up?"

Roach attempted to return the smile wearily, knowing that it wasn't nearly as convincing as the Englishman's, but responded nonetheless: "Couldn't sleep, that's all."

Ghost asked no further questions, nothing about why he had shown up outside his door in the middle of the night, but simply gestured for Roach to come in. Still indecisive about returning to his own room or not, Roach lingered in the hallway for a few seconds before choosing to take his superior up on his offer. There was something about the lieutenant's countenance that seemed to say that he wouldn't mind a little company himself.

"The other bed's open if you're tired. I've still got some work to do before turning in, so I don't mind waking you for your shift." Ghost suggested, closing the door after him.

Roach gave a halfhearted nod, scanning the room curiously. In all the time he'd known his superior, he'd never once actually been inside the other's room. The careful organization didn't surprise him; it had the appearance of a well-kept hotel room with the exception of an unmade bed and smoking ashtray – its perimeter littered with discarded cigarettes. Aside from that, it looked virtually untouched.

"I thought smoking was prohibited indoors." Roach quipped, settling down on the unused bed and beginning to unlace his boots.

Ghost snorted, already fishing another cigarette out of a pack on his bedside table. Once it was firmly stationed in between his lips, he brought the other hand up to light it, exhaling a puff of smoke afterwards for emphasis.

"Not like I've got anyone here to piss off," he motioned to the unused bed Roach was sitting on as he moved to sit down on his own. "Besides, I hardly think you have the jurisdiction to question my actions, Sergeant Sanderson."

An eyebrow raising in response to the use of his real last name, Roach yanked off the shoes and looked up to see the amused expression of his superior. It was rare enough that Ghost referred to him as anything but 'bug' or his alias, but Roach hadn't even realized that the Englishman knew his actual name. There was a very limited number of soldiers he himself knew the real names of.

"I guess not, Lieutenant Riley, sir."

He grinned as Ghost mimicked his questioning looks, shook his head with a vague smirk, and moved to open the closed laptop beside him to continue working. The lieutenant said nothing else as he absorbed himself back into his duties, absentmindedly puffing away at the cigarette, seemingly unaware of Roach's less-than-subtle stares.

The wound on his cheek had almost fully healed, observed the sergeant, leaving a faded but still slightly raw-looking scar. It would probably grow less and less distinguishable over time, joining the other disfigurements inevitably marking a soldier's body, but Roach knew that the memory of it would never fade. Any time spent on the battlefield came with some sort of price; for some, it was an empty cartridge, a wasted afternoon, an exhilarating trip to the brink of death. For others, it was an experience that remained in the psyche, always just beneath the surface and waiting, biding its time until it re-emergence, until it could take control once again.

Roach knew that sensation all too well. As confidently as he could assert himself in the moment – he realized that he wouldn't have made it far without nearly suicidal courage – it was times like these that he found himself unable to shake the anxious tension that had become part of his daily routine. He could never forget a particularly close encounter, no matter how many there were, and he was beginning to think that Ghost was not as entirely immune as he had initially thought.

The lieutenant took another long drag dismissively, extending an arm back to tap out burnt embers in the ashtray. A fleeting glance at the sergeant was all that acknowledged his presence, followed by the slightest of smiles as he continued his reports.

"You going to keep staring like that?"

Roach reached up to scratch the side of his neck awkwardly, diverting his attention towards the floor for the briefest of moments and then back up again. "Sorry."

"Full of apologies today, eh?" Ghost teased, exhaling smoke as he did so. It caught Roach's eye in an unusual sort of manner, as if he was fascinated by the faint cloud of haze surrounding his superior's face in a way he hadn't been only moments before. The realization only made him more aware of how stifled the room actually was by all the stuff, but he suppressed the cough demanding he expel it from his lungs. He seemed to be around it so often anyways; the Englishman was predictably European in that way, at least.

"Something's on your mind."

It wasn't a question, but Roach felt the need to give a somewhat abstract shrug as a response, flinging himself back onto the mattress with his hands knotted behind his head. He knew the lieutenant wasn't simply referring to the present, but the last few days of oddities as well. His answer was a non-committal gesture as he knew Ghost was apt to stay out of anyone's business save his own, but he still eyed the sergeant expectantly.

After a minute passed without any further enlightenment, the lieutenant sighed. "Care for a smoke?"

This was usually where Roach would respectfully decline either by a shake of the head or an unenthusiastic grunt; he rarely, if ever, took the man up on his offer. But something, probably days without a decent night of sleep and all the exhaustion and indifference that went with that, compelled him to accept this time. "Sure."

If the lieutenant was surprised by his acceptance, he didn't show it, just re-shut his laptop and leaned over the bedside table to scrounge for another pack.

"Here."

In his peripheral vision, the cigarette dangled between calloused fingers; behind that, the unfocused vision of his superior as he leaned over the side of the bed. There was nothing stopping him from turning to the side and accepting the gift, no reason not to, but Roach couldn't seem to remove his gaze from the ceiling. His reluctance was as puzzling to himself as the sudden impulse that had brought him to this same room, and almost as puzzling as his strange fixation on the scent of nicotine saturating the air. It was not as puzzling as his escalating consciousness of the man beside him, his unusual companionship with the steely lieutenant, or the fact that their characteristically repellant natures had seemed only to strengthen whatever relationship the two held on and off the battlefield.

It was tiring to always have to think about his actions when he wasn't given express orders.

It was loathsome how badly his body craved the pills he had long since become addicted to.

It was somewhat mortifying to find himself trying to replace the buzzing thoughts in his head with other, more lucrative ones of slamming the lieutenant to the floor and-

Roach shot up as if struck by lightning, his mind reeling with the revelation. Beside him, Ghost tensed.

"You alright?" A concerned tone, edged with suspicion.

The sergeant inhaled shakily, suddenly anxious to escape the room he'd found comfort in only moments before.

"Yeah, uh, just remembered something I gotta do." Without another word, he scrambled to plant his feet back on the floor, hastily stuffing them into his unlaced combat boots.

Roach knew that Ghost was generally dependable when it came to letting things go; that even the worst excuse would go unquestioned out of a certain sense of either respect or isolation, but the lieutenant surprised him with a disbelieving expression and sudden interest in the validity of that claim.

"Oh, really? At three in the fucking morning?"

The sergeant stiffened slightly at the incredulous tone in his superior's voice, but once he finished maneuvering his feet into his uncooperative shoes, Roach sprang up anxiously and began to turn for the door.

"Excuse me?" Ghost was beginning to sound either genuinely apprehensive or seriously pissed off at the other's silent retreat.

Too shaken to even make eye contact, Roach hesitated only a moment longer before willing his legs to move again, to carry him to the safety and solace of his own damn room where he could ponder what the fuck had just happened. He was so high-strung, so jittery that when the lieutenant forcefully gripped his arm from behind to stop him, he reacted the only way a soldier was trained to.

By the time his fist connected with Ghost's face, Roach had already realized who exactly he had just attacked: his superior, his mentor, his friend. Never before had he raised a hand to the lieutenant; they were always fighting on the same side, always had each other's back. Never had he expected himself to lash out so violently against such a minute action, and, judging from the utter disbelief in the Englishman's eyes as he released his grip and stumbled backwards, neither did he.

The hand that had been holding the cigarette flew up to cover his bleeding nose, withdrawing briefly to confirm that there was, in fact, blood. Ghost seemed more shocked than in pain, but when his eyes darted back up to lock onto Roach's, there was a certain degree of irritation eminent in his stare. The lieutenant said nothing, slightly hunched over with blood seeping through the fingers clamped over his face.

Roach was at a loss of words. Ghost _had_ succeeded in delaying his retreat, but it was at the cost of a possibly broken nose and a hell of a lot more tension between the two; if it had taken months to gain their camaraderie, Roach saw it dissipate in a matter of seconds. They were reduced to a wordless standstill, two enemy soldiers on the battlefield without knowing the exact course of action to take.

_You're a fucking mess, Gary. A real fucking mess_.

"I-" Roach attempted, rather pathetically, to begin to reconcile the damage done. "I'm-"

He couldn't finish, however, as a fist connected with his gut.

He coughed, he inhaled, and the next thing he knew, they were both bleeding and snarling and attempting to rout the other amidst curses and grunts and bloody noses.

Ghost got a hold of the sergeant's throat and smashed him into the wall, crushing his windpipes with just enough force to immobilize and blocking the other's desperate attacks with his opposite hand before Roach managed to clock him in the jaw and gain the advantage. They tumbled backwards onto the floor, Roach landing on top of the lieutenant and raising his fist to strike again until the Englishman flipped him back over and decked him in a similar manner, eliciting a new string of profanities from the wounded sergeant.

"Fucker." Ghost hissed, taking a moment to wipe the blood off his face with an already bloody sleeve, one of his knees pinning Roach's chest to the floor; the other, straddling his torso. "The fuck is wrong with you?"

Roach was speechless, breathing heavily in exhaustion. How had it come to this? One moment was peaceful joviality and the next they were both bloodied and bruised on the floor, their emotional capacities clearly past the breaking point. It was so uncharacteristic of Ghost to pick out a fight - so unlike his unruffled exterior - that he knew they were both at wit's end. He also knew that it was very likely that both would be reprimanded by their superiors for starting such a needless fight; having triggered it left Roach with a feeling of uneasy dread. Lack of restraint was completely unacceptable from world-class soldiers.

"Shit." Ghost leaned back on his haunches, still on guard but slightly more relaxed. "Would you at least think to warn me next time, hm?"

_Is that it? Is that all you have to say?_

For some reason, it made him angry. It upset him that Ghost hadn't just strangled him there; that the lieutenant was beginning to recede – bloody nose and all – back into the hardened, untouchable exterior he always wore. As if nothing had just happened.

The moment his superior made the move to stand, Roach bolted upwards and flipped the tables, pinning Ghost beneath him.

"The fuck is wrong with _you_?" He growled, feeling more agitated now at seeing the surprise in the Englishman's eyes. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice was warning him of how incredibly immature he was acting, of how much he'd regret it if he destroyed what little remained of their friendliness. But he just couldn't stop himself from wanting to pummel the impassive expression right off of his superior's face, to make him squirm in discomfort, pain, anger, anything. It took what little self control he had left to restrain himself from doing so, peeling his eyes away from the curious expression regarding him, teeth gritting in frustration.

The lieutenant made no move to throw him off, seemingly waiting for the internal conflict in the sergeant's head to subside. He found it somewhat interesting that the forcefulness of the hands pinning his arms to the floor contrasted so greatly from Roach's usual compliancy in matters off the battlefield; the entirety of the events that had just transpired spoke volumes about the psychological state of both soldiers. Things like this always just sizzled below the surface, waiting for release. Ghost had seen it before, had felt the pressure of it before, but witnessing it happen to the man above him roused a particular facet of his attention. One he felt less than comfortable with regarding their continued, passive aggressive proximity.

As if sensing his discomfort, Roach retrained his eyes on the lieutenant's face, finding nothing but a hint of frustration beneath heavy lids. Still, it was a hint, and the sergeant reveled in the stirring of emotion.

"Don't make me hurt you." Ghost warned, the tension in his voice becoming increasingly more apparent.

Despite himself, Roach snorted in amusement. At a different moment - in his right mindset - he would've apologized for being such a jackass. For everything that had led to this point. For the still-bleeding and possibly broken nose. But right now, the time for reconciliation was over.

"And do what, _sir_?"

Roach observed as the Englishman narrowed his eyes at the blatant condescension, feeling the lieutenant bristle icily under his touch. His fingers tightened around the other's biceps, holding him steadfast in the case that he chose to fight back. He continued to ignore the voice of reason nagging at the back of his mind.

"You're still a fucking kid, sergeant. Just a fucking kid."

That was all it took for Roach to draw a hand back in a haphazard fist, completely intent on following through with the punch. Yet he stopped as Ghost raised a released hand and grasped hold of his shirt, yanking him forward and throwing off his balance. And for a moment they paused: the lieutenant now propped up on one elbow, their faces inches apart, eyes interlocked.

"Calm. The fuck. Down."

There was nothing soothing about his tone or the look the steel eyes shot back at him, but Roach had lost his momentum, and with it, his will to continue. It was as if he was seeing the other for the first time, and feeling the concentrated intensity boring straight through him immediately brought him back to his senses. They were left unmoving and silent in the aftermath, words failing to fill the gap.

Tentatively, Roach let his fist collapse beside him, palm upturned on the floor in defeat. A shaky exhale left him as the lieutenant softened the glare, another convoluted expression replacing it before he pushed the sergeant backwards and off of him, the hand readjusting to cover his undoubtedly aching nose. Roach felt a pang of remorse at the gesture but recognized the look as the one he had seen all those weeks before, the night Ghost had visited his room following his barbed wire injury and rescue from the battlefield. It had escaped much of his concern before, but its reoccurrence hardly seemed a coincidence and therefore the mystery behind it intrigued him.

He started to open his mouth to say something, but the words died in his throat. There was no form of apology that sounded sincere in his head, nothing that he could see the other accepting easily, nothing that even rang true to himself. He was left a conflicted heap on the floor as the lieutenant rose to stand, setting himself back down on his bed.

Ghost mumbled a short string of incoherent curses, leaning over to rummage through cabinet drawers for a tissue to help wipe the drying blood off. An experimental prod at his nose told him that, while most definitely painful, the bone appeared to be in tact. That would be one less thing he'd have to explain to command. The bruising was a different story, but he supposed that his balaclava would hide the marks sufficiently.

Achieving his goal, the lieutenant chanced a look in the direction of the sergeant, who was still sitting on the floor in somewhat of a stupor, staring off into the distance, a lazy drop of blood dripping down from a busted lip. Roach's tongue flicked out absently to catch it, a detail followed unconsciously by the watching eyes until the sergeant turned to meet them.

"Just go back to sleep." He dabbed at the blood with the tissue, trying to sound casual in spite of everything but uncomfortably shifting his gaze downwards at the same time. The awkwardness of the exchange wasn't lost on Roach, further fueling his silent curiosity.

"Can't." He murmured with a humorless smile, tilting his head forward as he moved to get up, and wincing as the hit Ghost had landed on his stomach stung at the string of movements. He needed to justify himself out of a strange mix of guilt and desperation; he felt as if he owed the lieutenant this much at least. "Out of pills."

Without looking in the other's direction, Roach leaned against the wall for support, only now fully coming to terms with how much his limbs ached.

"Can't…ever sleep without them." He felt exposed, vulnerable, tired, nauseous. His head throbbed as the adrenaline subsided and the chronic exhaustion returned. "Too many nightmares."

The other man was silent, contemplative, and despite his refusal to meet them, Roach sensed the scrutinizing eyes of the lieutenant upon him. They lingered even as he glanced upwards, avoiding their gaze, to read the time displayed by the small digital clock resting on the bedside table.

3:58 AM.

Only a couple of hours until he'd be back at the range.

Only a couple of hours until he'd have to put on the face of an obedient, dutiful soldier again and persist as his training had taught him.

Only a couple of hours left until sunrise.

"I'm sorry." He managed at last, the words leaving as naturally as they should have come in the first place. Roach detached himself from the wall, ignoring the feverish dizziness that accompanied the shift, and turned around, finding himself facing the door. In raising a hand to poise over the knob, he contemplated briefly. There was nothing left for him to say or do, no point in lingering when he had been expressly encouraged to leave.

And what amazed him was that he still wanted to stay, wanted to fall to his knees and apologize, wanted to cry. He wanted to be able to ease the lieutenant's pain and by doing so, console his own. The revelation that had sparked his outburst was fresh in his mind and was not to be easily forgotten.

Behind him, Ghost sat unspoken.

_If only it was that easy_, Roach mused, his hand twisting the door closed behind him as he walked out.

_If only_.

* * *

**A/N: So that's it. Not the end of the story, I mean, but…well, you get it. That was officially the longest chapter I've ever written ever. **

**If I have ever needed feedback from something I've written, it would be on this chapter. Seriously, I must've deleted and rewritten it a dozen times by now and I'm still not sure if it's really where I want it to be. I hope that all 3 of you reading this feel at least a tiny bit compelled to critique/comment/bash something about it, right? Any feedback is welcome. **

**And P.S.: h****as anyone in the history of slash/yaoi/fanfiction-in-general ever included a shaving scene in their story? If so, I'd like to know. I mean, guys _do_ get facial hair, people...****I feel special to have accomplished fitting one in****. XD**


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N: So, I'm a bad author and forgot to respond to those who reviewed, but seeing as I usually only thank you guys for being so awesome, I figured I'd publicize your awesome by posting all of your names here! :D That's right, all of you wonderful reviewers are gonna get featured in future chapters, right here! And since I'm starting late, I'm just gonna list all of you….so….thanks to:**

_**Verity A (2x), Anonymous, Awesome troll, SeptumPellucidum (3x), xStealthxSniperx, TheSmartIdiot, Ianthony, panpanpeppermint (2x), VengeanceX, XDoItForTehLulz, Featherine Augustus Aurora, SunkissedBlue, TK, manny, and ChaosGarden.**_

**I LOVE ALL OF YOU EQUALLY! (except for maybe those multi-reviewers…you guys are winning…)**

**Anyways, sorry for the wait, and I now present Chapter Four/Five! (it depends if you count the prologue as a chapter or not, lol)**

* * *

Roach twirled the small white bottle in his palm around absently, eyes turned upwards to meet those of the medic's. The sandpapery sound of pills rolling inside the plastic container seemed to provide a sort of comforting shield against the outside world as speech waded in and out of clarity.

"I'm asking you, Sergeant, if you think you're still psychologically fit to be a member of this team."

A scene of corpses littering the blood-red sand flashed vaguely behind his retinas; the face of a fallen team-member staring dully up at the blinding sun.

He could feel himself stalling, feel the kaleidoscope of scenarios run through his mind based on the answers he could give to that question. As if there wasn't enough to contemplate already. But as experience had taught him: the only thing worse than being on the battlefield was being away from it. It was a life that offered few ways out except in death – and not only in the literal sense.

Once a soldier, always a soldier.

"Yes, sir. Never felt better."

It was easy to see that the phony grin wasn't fooling the scrutinizing stare of his superior, but no immediate reply followed, leaving him with the opportunity to rise from the makeshift cot and tuck the bottle into his pocket. The renewed supply of pills had taken quite a bit of maneuvering to earn, and the only thing on his mind currently was the few hours of daylight remaining before he'd be able to use them. He didn't want to admit it, but even the act of standing so suddenly left him somewhat lightheaded.

"Sergeant, if I notice any more issues, I'm discharging you."

The other stiffened visibly, already in the act of twisting the door handle, but shrugged it off a moment later to be replaced by a weak smile that he hoped would convey a flippant attitude about the whole affair.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

* * *

Ghost sighed, fingers moving to pinch the bridge of his nose as he shut bloodshot eyes and tilted back in his chair. As exhausting and tedious as it was, another long day of research and code-cracking had been pleasantly distracting, providing minimal time to dwell on things he'd rather have forgotten. The persistent throbbing of a still slightly bruised nose refused to let him overlook the incident entirely.

It had been perhaps a week since he had last spoken to the sergeant. It wasn't as if they saw each other daily in the first place – their schedules seldom coincided with the exception of field missions. But he couldn't deny how strange it felt to have the bug ignore him completely, to retreat behind his duties and avoid his gaze at briefings, target practice, and the like. The reason behind that behavior was still something he felt uncomfortable thinking about.

As long as he'd known him, Ghost had thought of Roach as a dependable comrade on the battlefield, as awkward yet relatively cool-headed off of it. He'd seen the kid as an exception amongst the hardened, insensitive majority of soldiers belonging to the Task Force; it hadn't been for his bloodlust or thoughtless loyalty that he'd earned the rank of sergeant, but something more akin to determination and resolve. It had been that distinction that had drawn him to the other in the first place, that had allowed Roach to get as close to him as he had, that had eventually led him to think of the sergeant as more than just a colleague…perhaps even more than a friend…

Ghost gritted his teeth in frustration, choosing to ignore that train of thought.

The night of their fight hadn't been the first time he'd seen the turmoil within the American. It had, however, been his own lapse of judgment in underestimating the extent that tumult controlled the sergeant, both mentally and physically. Everyone had their demons in this business, but crippling anxiety was usually the mark of an infantry level soldier, of someone unconditioned to the perpetually stressing struggle to survive that militia of their caliber had been trained to disregard. The fact that Roach had made it this far without questioning frankly amazed him; he was apparently better at hiding his emotions than Ghost had thought.

Nothing, though, could have disguised the haunting dark circles under the sergeant's eyes. Only denial.

A certain degree of guilt fell upon him at that notion.

How long? How long had he been like that? Considering that Roach hadn't been in the Task Force for more than the better part of a year and had been in the army for almost four, it seemed unlikely that such issues had emerged only recently.

He remembered going through the folders of potential recruits, charged with selecting the best of the preliminary trials before allowing them into specialized training. One in particular had caught his attention all those months back, a certain soldier with an odd alias: _Sgt. Gary Sanderson; "Roach"_. It wasn't until he had asked the man himself what it meant that he'd gotten an explanation.

"_Well, sir, I've been through hell and back. Survived things nobody should've. Like a roach survives everything. You just can't kill 'em."_

It hadn't been said with proud bravado, just a small smile and shrug of the shoulders. _Strange kid_, he'd thought at the time. He'd failed to see anything abnormal about the words or their speaker; at least no more so than the average soldier. The sergeant had proven himself as far as skill had gone, immediately ranking among the best of the existing members. And the more Ghost had seen, the easier it had become to understand the nickname, perhaps even the man behind it as well.

_Not bloody well enough,_ he reminded himself grimly.

He hadn't expected the degree of attachment the sergeant would form to him and him alone. Roach seemed to keep to himself outside of combat, never one to socialize with the other guys in whatever off time he had. In fact, he wasn't even sure if the other had made the effort to. The lieutenant had attributed it to a reserved nature. He was beginning to see that it was more than that.

Was it his fault for not noticing things sooner? Would be able to do anything now?

Could he?

"Riley, report."

The lieutenant started slightly, at once straightening back to attention at the commanding voice of the captain. He cursed himself internally for his drifting thoughts before refocusing back on the task at hand.

"Sir, the captives all have some previous relation to known terrorist networks and religious fanaticism, but I still haven't been able to trace any back to Makarov himself. Whoever covered their footsteps did so thoroughly – as far as their superiors are concerned, none of them have ever existed."

MacTavish seemed to register the information without surprise, clapping a hand on the Englishman's shoulder in support. "Good job, Lieutenant. I'm beginnin' to think it's about time we ask them a few questions, hm? 'Ould you like to do the honors?"

The computer screen stared back uninvitingly, the subtle glow threatening to strain his eyes further. Besides, a more physical activity would serve to relieve some stress – breaking a few fingers never failed to blow off steam. The realization had him cringing inwardly for the first time in a long while; he was no different from the rest of them. He was just as desensitized and twisted as those he begrudged. He mused curiously on when that had happened.

"Yeah, alright."

* * *

"Oi, Sergeant! MacTavish's callin' us to the briefing room."

Roach peeled his eyes away from the range, dropping the barrel of his gun simultaneously. The voice belonged to the fleeting image of a fellow soldier, the man in question already hustling to round up the other stragglers.

He wasted no time in unloading the cartridge and replacing the firearm back on the rack, half-anxious, half-excited. It was becoming easier and easier to bury himself in work – so much so that it was also getting harder and harder to be idle. Every moment of every day was another opportunity to improve his abilities, to offer himself up for overtime shifts, to grow accustomed to the few and fitful nights of rest. He was beginning to understand how the rest survived, how the over-worked lieutenant could. The less you thought about it, the happier you were.

The protesting voice in the back of his mind went ignored.

By the time he made it to the briefing room, he realized that he'd been the last to walk in. MacTavish acknowledged him with a curt nod before beginning to lay out the details of the mission.

A subtle glance located the Englishman on the opposite side of the room, behind the Captain, leaning with his back to the wall, arms crossed loosely below his chest, a cigarette dangling between two gloved fingers. Tinted sunglasses made it impossible for Roach to discern the direction of his gaze – a thought that made him subconsciously avert his eyes back onto the speaker and left an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, the skull balaclava leering at him in his peripheral vision.

He wasn't yet ready to face the lieutenant; in fact, he wasn't sure when he'd ever be. That looming reality was one of the many things he was learning to ignore. Was _trying _to ignore. Desperately. And was already failing at.

"Ghost," MacTavish began, instantly drawing Roach's attention, "Your team will be responsible for securing the prisoner and escorting him to safety."

"Yessir."

The reply was unenthusiastic, but dutiful. The sergeant was unable to look away as Ghost dropped the cigarette to the ground and smothered it brusquely underfoot. It was somewhat surprising to witness the hostility behind that one simple action, but no-one else seemed to have noticed or cared. Had it just been his imagination? Or, was he the only one so obsessed with every little move made by the lieutenant?

The skeletal smirk left his questions unanswered, but Roach could almost swear that there was a scowl beneath the printed fabric. Perhaps he really was too attuned to the other. Perhaps it was also due to that reason that he felt a hidden but steady gaze meet his own and couldn't have shivered more noticeably.

"Get ready to move out. Helicopter's leaving at 2100 hours."

The trance broken, Roach couldn't have fled faster, filing out of the room ahead of the rest, completely conscious of the eyes boring into his back as he did so.

* * *

Blood splattered across concrete walls, bullet holes speckling the plaster beneath, soot-coated corpses lying below.

Roach surveyed the area carefully, sights guiding him as he stepped over the bodies and checked around each obstruction for stragglers. It was imperative to secure the area before attempting to relocate the hostage, especially one of such importance. If what MacTavish had said was true, this man held a significant role in the efforts to capture several major terrorists. They had followed too many dead ends to screw up an actual lead.

"Clear over here," Reaper reported behind him.

He glanced over his shoulder to witness Ghost give the soldier a quick nod before resuming the task of breaking through the prisoner's chains.

"Clear," Roach confirmed, willing his eyes away from the lieutenant and towards the open doorway. The destruction beyond told the story of the merciless siege, the enemy body count well into the double digits. This had been somewhere heavily fortified and prepared for an onslaught, yet only four victors, all members of Task Force 141, remained standing. There were wounds, but no casualties on the ally side.

_Yet_, he thought, swiveling to double-check the dilapidated furnishings scattered throughout the room.

There was a certain groan of pain as the duct tape was ripped off the captive's mouth, followed by a quick mutter of thanks. Ghost aided the man to his feet, the severed chains clanging to the floor at the movement, and then another distinct hiss drew the sergeant's attention as the former hostage practically collapsed against the Englishman.

"Fuckers broke one of my ankles," he explained, cursing as he shifted off of the one foot. "Can't barely walk."

"Shit." Ghost sounded genuinely pissed, surprising Roach somewhat that he hadn't even bothered to hide it. The Ghost he had known a few weeks ago would have accepted the information with little more than an understanding nod and subsequent directions. Nevertheless, the lieutenant slunk an arm around the man's side, supporting the weight of the other with one hand, pistol equipped with the opposite. "Reaper, Ozone, head out in front. Roach, follow."

The team filed out in order, tensed for further resistance. Roach followed as instructed, charged with both the immediate protection of the hostage and covering the tail end of the group. They had been slowed considerably by the limping pace set by the rescued man, leaving more time open for errors, for enemy recovery. It hadn't been an easy trek to make it this far, but the escape was sure to prove more trying. Experience had taught the sergeant well.

As if on cue, precursory static alerted them of an incoming message.

"Hostiles, heading your way," the radio buzzed, the transmission fuzzy with interference. A hollow din of unseen gunfire confirmed that the battle had already been set into motion up ahead, the others waiting at the landing zone already defending against the newest resurgence of hostiles.

Ghost received the news with newfound determination, immediately ordering the leading soldiers to scout ahead before calling in for further support. It would take at least ten minutes to reach their destination, between multiple steel structures during which they'd be exposed to the danger of snipers in addition to the usual offence. The lieutenant took care to remind the chopper of it, to stand-by, and possibly arrange a closer extraction point than the one initially intended.

"If you want him to make it out, you'll risk it," he warned in response to the voice on his headset, casting a sideways glance to summon the sergeant to his side. Roach obeyed without comment, waiting for the one-sided conversation to end.

The liberated prisoner remained silent, focusing instead on maintaining his weight on the uninjured foot, a drop of sweat rolling down the crease of his brows. The sergeant knew that his superior was right; there was no way that the route they had travelled during the siege would be at all plausible to retrace now. He knew, and yet, he couldn't help but feel that they would be given little choice in the matter. For all the lieutenant's persistence, the most they would be likely to receive would be back-up, and even then, their chance at complete success seemed impossibly tricky. Despite his confidence in his team's ability, extracting a hostage was always a difficult pursuit. This particular mission, and its significance, made every risk they were taking seem all the greater.

"Sir, they're here!"

Roach snapped towards the doorway as he heard Ozone shout from up ahead, his next move being to position himself in front of the lieutenant and the prisoner, creating a sort of bodily shield in the narrow space allotted by the room.

"Do you hear me?" Ghost growled behind him, still engaged with the headset. The commencing gunfire beyond their temporary sanctuary droned out whatever else the Englishman was going to say, prompting Roach to raise the barrel of his assault rifle as his pulse quickened with adrenaline. The transmission now cut, Ghost cursed as he moved the hostage out of what would soon be the line of fire, allowing for the sergeant to duck behind cover as well.

"What's the plan, sir?" Roach asked hesitantly, finger poised on the trigger and eyes trained towards the door. As the first figure emerged around the corner, he let loose a barrage of bullets, the stunted scream that followed a confirmation of his kill. How instinctual killing was to him on the battlefield; the hairs raised along the back of his neck reacting with the anticipation.

"We have our orders," the lieutenant replied bitterly, quickly moving to check the clip in his pistol before snapping the gun shut. "Push forward."

Roach nodded with understanding, unsurprised, before moving to head down the hallway. Ghost, the weight of the hostage supported on one side, followed.

Reaper and Ozone were not far ahead, holding their ground against a surge of incoming terrorists. It took little time to become embroiled in the fight, bullets splitting the air in nearly every direction. Every time one hostile fell to the ground, another appeared to take his place, a seemingly endless stream of enemies replenishing their ranks. It was all they could do to stay in one place, the rescued man planted behind cover as the clock ticked away valuable time for their escape.

"Enemies heading in from the west," the radio buzzed again, informing them futilely of the incoming ambush. "Back-up on the way."

"Not enough time," Roach heard Ghost retort, and glanced back only long enough to see the lieutenant gesture him towards a shuttered window, grenade already in hand. "Need another way out."

The explosion that followed rattled the stone pillars supporting the building's framework, immediately catching the attention of the other Task Force members. Yet as the debris cleared, the entrance into a parallel alleyway was revealed, and the soldiers needed no further instructions as they made for the makeshift exit beneath the crumbling ceiling.

"Head north!" Ghost commanded over competing foreign yells, burdened and considerably slowed by his wounded liability, as Roach withdrew a flash grenade to assist in their impromptu detour. "We need air support!"

The overhead roar of a chopper confirmed the compliance with that statement, the soldiers navigating the array of structures beneath in the meantime. Roach remained at the back of the group, gunning down any approaching threats as they neared a clearing in the buildings already swarming with enemies. The aerial back-up offered what it could as they emerged and scattered across the sand, rolling behind whatever offered protection from the onslaught of gunfire.

Perspiration running down the side of his face, Roach panted somewhat laboriously under the brutal desert sun, barely hidden by the meager air-conditioning unit he had ducked behind. He was running low on ammo. They were still minutes away from the rendezvous, that time now doubled by the pace set by the injured hostage. Who, Roach noted, as he sought out the vaguely familiar form next to the crouched lieutenant, was looking to be in worse condition by the second. The lieutenant himself, hidden behind his usual guise, seethed with each heavy breath as he glanced out at the battlefield before them.

Hope seemed fleeting, the sergeant acknowledged, beginning to feel a sort of resignation he wasn't used to in the midst of battle. How easy it would be to drop his weapons, shut his eyes, and wait for the death that often came to him in his dreams. He'd been away from the positive influence of the lieutenant for too long, and the one only yards away wasn't helping. It was as if, with the absence of the Englishman's usual gusto, Roach himself was feeling his own determination subside, melting into the apathy that had become characteristic of him when not in conflict. A side effect of their current distance he had not anticipated. The reminder only served to pain him further.

Awaiting his next orders, the sergeant felt as undeserving of his position as he had ever been. Sleeping pills couldn't fix the emotions constantly welling to the surface. He'd need something else for that.

_"I'm asking you, Sergeant, if you think you're still psychologically fit to be a member of this team."_

He knew what the answer would be in this exact moment, if it was asked of him again.

And he knew how he would've handled that night all those days ago, too. How, instead of slamming his fist into the lieutenant's face, he would've just acted on that very first impulse. The same one he had perhaps glimpsed in Ghost's eyes all those times and pretended to ignore. He somehow felt now that yanking the Englishman's face down to meet his own wouldn't have been met with the resistance he initially thought. But one look at his actual superior in this moment also told him that the time for that had long passed.

_Of course it's gone; we're fighting for our fucking lives._

The momentary reprieve granted by the helicopter was a short lived one, as enemies began to advance further on their positions. The order from the lieutenant to begin firing pulled him out of his reverie, as he felt his body mechanically carry out the actions of propping his gun back up and taking aim at the closest movement.

Yet it wasn't until he caught a glimpse of a hostile creeping up from behind that his brain rejoined the fight, and he spun to shoot the enemy just a moment too late.

He watched in horror as the grenade landed yards out of his reach, leaving him with only a split second to make the decision he knew would quite possibly end his life.

If only it hadn't been the lieutenant it rolled next to.

He shouted a warning, but it went unheard in the din of gunfire. In a matter of seconds, both Ghost and the hostage would be eliminated, both directly in the range of the explosion. And with that would go their only true lead on Makarov and the only person Roach had ever cared about.

He knew that the mission took top priority. He knew that soldiers had to be sacrificed in order to achieve their goals. He knew that there was not enough time to push both of them out of the way.

He knew what his duty was.

But he also knew that his choice had been made for him already by the series of motions that followed, and before he could waver a moment longer, Roach dove for the lieutenant just as the desert sand exploded with a blinding flash of shrapnel.

* * *

**A/N: Dramatic ending is dramatic! :O I feel like this is turning more angsty by the chapter, but given the ending I've already set myself up for, I suppose it's appropriate. But seriously, I'm getting depressed just writing it. XD**

**This chapter seems a little disjointed to me, but this was the only way I felt I could write what I wanted to in the order I wanted it. Also, I didn't want to put it through another month of revisions for only minor changes, and, as no-one's actually paying me for the effort I put into this, I figured: what the hell? All I hope for is that the fans of this story continue to be so and stick with me til the end (yes, I shall finish this!). **

**Also, on an unrelated note, ****I figured it was about time someone called me out on my accents, but since no-one has, I'm just going to do it myself. I'm an American – and have been my entire life – so I really have little idea beyond typical stereotypes of British slang/speech of how natives of the UK really speak. If my English readers find my portrayal of Ghost inaccurate, I apologize sincerely, and feel free to correct me if anything sounds awkward to you. Just keep in mind that I **_**am**_** trying. :P**

**Also, I have little to no knowledge of how Task Force 141 would actually be run (and what the hell they'd do all day, lol), so sorry for any potential failures. I'm kinda using the movie 'Jarhead' for a reference here, for lack of any actual familiarity with militia. I don't have the time for research. :P**

**Thanks as always for the read (and SUPER thanks to my reviewers ;D)!**


	6. Chapter 5

**A/N: The saga of angst continues. Yes – it hasn't died just yet. Please enjoy. **

**Once again, thanks to every awesome person who reviewed the last chapter: _Reg, xDoItForTehLulz, Zombies of a Down, SeptumPellucidum, ChaosGarden, Featherine Augustus Aurora, Anonymous Nameless Person_ (lol)_, Swiping Monocles,_ _Sadistic-Kit, _and _Meg-la-cacahuete._ You dudes are amazing. No, really.**

* * *

One moment – the sound of gunfire, an indistinguishable yell, his finger glued to the trigger; the next - a deafening blast and heavy force knocking into him, forcing the air out of his lungs as he was tackled to the ground.

Drowned. Everything sounded submerged, distant, as the lieutenant lay there, unable to inhale through the constricting fabric of his balaclava. Disoriented, he could hear the muffled din of the action around him, could make out the blurred figures flitting in and out of his vision, could feel an unseen weight crushing the lower half of his body. It registered vaguely to him that his left arm was on fire, the pain dulled by confusion.

By the time the dust settled, the lieutenant had regained enough breath to send the necessary alarms to his brain, the momentary fog in his head clearing. He shot up, or tried to, before his eyes made contact with the shivering weight holding him back.

For an instant, the lieutenant seemed to forget where he was. The warning voice in the back of his head went ignored as his motions stilled and eyes widened visibly, the tinted sunglasses sprawled far out of reach behind him. And for a reason other than just having had the wind knocked out of his lungs, Ghost found it incredibly difficult to absorb the next breath.

The sergeant had his eyes scrunched shut, his face pale and his breathing ragged against the heavy canvas of the lieutenant's pants. He was sprawled protectively over his superior, having managed to push the other farther out of reach from the blast than he had succeeded himself. The evidence was easy to see in the form of rapidly spreading bloodstains over the expanse of his back. Glistening metal pieces contrasted with the pooling red, and with a sudden horror, the Englishman realized that the searing pain in his arm was forgotten in the wake of viewing the identical injuries marring the sergeant. Indication of foreign blood splatters had him suddenly glancing up at his surroundings, and then quickly back down again with a shiver of apprehension, his mind immediately deciding to delay that particular direction of focus.

The one thing he could confirm: the informant was dead.

But Roach wasn't; not yet.

Trembling hands found themselves grabbing for the sergeant, and with a bit of quick and careful maneuvering, Ghost dragged the other behind definite shelter before cautiously positioning him on his side. Roach made no sound at the shift, but the lieutenant could see the pressure with which he was biting down on his bottom lip and the strain of a furrowed brow that indicated at least partial consciousness. He tried desperately to be optimistic about that as he leaned forward to get a better look at the wounds, telling himself that he was not shaking with the acknowledgement of their severity. It took him another moment to discover that the gravelly breathing grating on his ears was his own.

"You bloody fucker," Ghost managed to choke out, completely at a loss as to the next course of action to take. Next to him, the sergeant's eyelids fluttered briefly in response, but remained scrunched shut as a barely audible hiss of pain left his lips. He murmured something under his breath, but it was lost amidst the unceasing gunfire.

"Don't talk," Ghost commanded, hearing the words come out as more of a plea than an order. He cleared his throat and tried again, "Just keep quiet."

It was a rare occurrence for him to be stranded on the battlefield without a plan. He always had some inkling of strategy, some back-up blueprint in his head to navigate out of a mess. But with the scattered remains of their mission's objective laying no further than a few feet from him, with the increasingly shallow breaths of his savior, with his mind suddenly shut off from rationality – Ghost felt lost.

Anxiously, he fumbled for his headset, only to find the sound of white noise. In the corner of his vision, he saw his other two operatives crouched behind shelter farther ahead, oblivious to his plight. They still did not know that their mission had become futile, that their bullets were wasted without further cause, that one of their teammates was slowly dying right behind them. He tried to call out, but found his voice strained and unable to carry over the competing sounds. He considered trying to remove the pieces of metal lodged in the sergeant's back, but was too fearful of the resulting blood loss to take action. All he could do was sit by and watch, frozen in uncertainty.

He had never felt so helpless.

It wasn't until the whirring of an above-head chopper drew his attention upwards that he was able to move, as it was slowly descending upon the clearing and returning gunfire. A latent RPG headed for the remaining enemies, the ground shaking as it hit its target. There would be a brief window of opportunity to make it on board before the next wave found them; he had one shot to do this, knowing for certain that in his current mentality, he was practically a sitting duck on the battlefield. And if he failed, Roach would have no hope.

Without further ado, the lieutenant warily roped an arm around the sergeant, guiding him to his feet in a still-crouched position. The wounds scattered across his back bled at the movement, much to Ghost's restless dismay. Roach was fading fast, unable to even hold onto his superior for support as he slipped closer to unconciousness. His head lolled against the lieutenant's shoulder as the latter tensed for their final attempt at escape, his disheveled hair brushing against the exposed portion of the Englishman's face.

_In a moment_, Ghost told to himself, eyes transfixed on the descending chopper as he did his best to ignore the subtle tremors seizing his comrade's body. _One more fucking moment._

_Thirty seconds._

And then he heard the hiss of air beside him and couldn't help but shift his head to look. Despite his orders against it, Roach was repeating something discreetly into his jacket, his eyes half-lidded and dull. The sight of it rekindled his sense of urgency, and he didn't let the bird leave his sight as it neared the ground.

"I thought I told you-"

"…rry."

Ghost tensed at the cracked voice beside him, as Roach had managed to raise the volume of his whispers.

_Fifteen._

"I'm sorry," he apologized again, and the lieutenant grinded his teeth in desperation.

_Ten._

He couldn't find the words to reply, just simply tightened his grip on the other in acknowledgement, his eyes feeling watery under the brutal glare of the sun.

_Five._

No time for hesitation.

_Four._

He wasn't crying; he hadn't cried in years.

_Three. _

Emotions were inconvenient.

_Two._

He had to focus.

_One._

With a quick inhale, Ghost abandoned cover.

* * *

Before he had even come to his senses, Roach felt the fire running along his spine; heard the monotonous beep of the heartbeat monitor beside him. His eyelids were lead - weighted down and impossible to lift. In fact, his whole body had settled into heaviness, like layers of silt lying beneath a river long since packed into immobility.

He tried to lift a hand only to find his joints unresponsive to the command. Everything ached as if it was ancient, awakening from a slumber of eons. It didn't seem unlikely. He had already faced death; if he wasn't dead yet, his body hadn't realized it.

His consciousness was slowly assembling, sparked largely by the persistent throbbing along his back. Of course he wasn't dead – there was no way death could be this painful. Eyes still shut, he felt his facial muscles contort into a cringe.

He concentrated all his effort into moving his fingers to grasp the stiff fabric beneath his palms. With the awakening of his strength, Roach managed to force his eyelids open to greet the blurry world outside his own.

It was just as he had suspected: a hospital, then. A better equipped version of the infirmary back on base. But if he wasn't back on base, then where was he?

Panic seized him, and he struggled to bolt up.

_The lieutenant._

_The informant._

_The explosion._

It was all coming back to him, along with the stabbing pain that wrenched him back against the cot in agony. If the pain he had experienced before was fire, this was Hell itself. He felt claustrophobic, wires running from his veins to the rapidly beeping machines. He was trapped, ignorant of the events that had taken place between his loss of consciousness and his awakening, and panicked because he needed to know.

Carelessly, he began to rip at the needles in his arm, determined to tug them loose. They were constraining him, holding him back from the truth. But his mind was also so jumbled that he barely noticed when the door swung open and two unfocused figures rushed in, their voices vaguely registering in the back of his mind.

"Hold him down!"

The needles were forced back in, his efforts proving futile as he once again tumbled backwards and scrunched his eyes shut, the pain a big enough distraction for him to give up his plight.

"Sedatives wore off," the other voice confirmed brusquely, an unfamiliar voice.

He was fading again, the pressure in his skull ripping away his awareness. He wasn't ready to go yet. He still had so many questions to ask. But arguing as the lead settled over his body again was futile, and before long, he had completely slipped back into oblivion.

* * *

When he resurfaced again, he wasn't alone.

He didn't realize it at first, when he opened his eyes to see the dull off-white of the ceiling. The heartbeat monitor still beeped incessantly, though he didn't feel the need to turn to confirm its existence. He didn't feel much of anything, actually, just a heavy peacefulness that left him listless, drowsy, unaware of his very own inquisitions. And he was about to let go again when the slightest sound of rustling beside him drew upon his curiosity. His eyes followed the source, coming to rest upon the hunched figure at the edge of the bed, face concealed behind interwoven fingers, elbows resting on his knees.

Tousled, sandy hair left little doubt in his mind as to who his visitor was.

Roach attempted to reach out towards him, but his limbs refused movement. He tried to clear his throat, but the dryness that had remained forced out a wheeze instead.

The head snapped up, hands instantly jolting away from his face.

The moment froze, in which conflicting emotions passed between the two men, the stage unprepared for the sudden encounter of consciousness.

The sergeant was about to swallow and try again before Ghost literally sprang from his seat and grabbed at the front of Roach's shirt, twisting the fabric as he yanked him upwards to meet his hunched stance. Roach winced at the slight discomfort caused by the motion, but the drugs had too heavily dulled his senses to elicit a further reaction.

"You bloody fucking idiot! Who the fuck asked for your help? Your priority was the hostage, Sergeant. If you're going to pull some fucking heroic bullshit on the battlefield, make it for something worthwhile!"

Roach said nothing, his gaze coolly fixed on the lieutenant's face. The words didn't match the expression, he noted, even beneath the haze fogging his mind.

"It was your bloody fault that we lost that lead! It was your shitty judgment that set us back again! You're the fucker we have to blame for our failure!"

Roach was beginning to feel his dimmed pulse increase at the words, their meaning awakening the guilt buried within him.

"I'm sorry," the sergeant managed a hoarse whisper, unable to think of anything less cliché to mutter as a response.

Ghost paused in his tirade, the anger vanishing from his features as quickly as his fist unclenched from the sergeant's shirt. It wasn't until then that Roach noticed the lieutenant shaking, recognized the pain behind his falsely steely gaze. There it was – that emotion his superior always hid. Pretended that he didn't have.

The mask was crumbling right before him.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again to the silence, guiltily relishing in the pained expression that crossed the Englishman's face. "I'm sor-"

"Fuck you," Ghost faltered, shifting his face downwards to obscure his eyes from view. "I don't want to hear it. I'm taking you off the team."

Even in his debilitated state, Roach tensed at the words. He opened his mouth to protest, but found his voice unwilling to come to his rescue. It was true – he _was_ at fault for not saving the hostage when he could. He had known that, jumping into the situation, that there was only one life he had the chance to save. And even though that one life was now reproaching him for his recklessness, his stupidity, his abandon, he found it difficult to believe that the other option was worth the asking price. His guilt was immense, and his justification naught, but Roach didn't regret the decision he had made, and he knew somehow that the lieutenant knew it too.

Why else was he hiding a face that betrayed his emotions? Why else did he seem so helpless now, so utterly removed from control? If Ghost had truly meant the words he said, he would have no problem reproving the sergeant with spiteful glares to match his accusations. He wouldn't be so tired-looking, wouldn't have been there at the edge of his bed. Wouldn't look like the words he had just spoken had utterly deflated him, leaving nothing but a hollow shell of the self-assured, unbreakable lieutenant Roach had come to know.

Except that Ghost wasn't there at all; it was just Simon Riley. Just as – underneath it all – Roach was still just Gary Sanderson. Neither had been born soldiers, they had become them. And right now, neither of them were.

"You don't mean that," he finally managed, daring the other to challenge the claim. It felt strange, talking to the lieutenant again, after what felt like weeks of avoiding each other. His debilitated state was what had given him the confidence to cast aside those inhibitions. As he saw it, nothing he could say now could screw up the situation any further. What was there left to break?

The lieutenant's silence spoke volumes, and so did the whitening knuckles clenched on top of the mattress beside him.

"You don't mean that, because if you did, you wouldn't be here."

Ghost looked upwards, his face devoid of the anger that should have been there.

"After all, all I am is your subordinate," Roach continued, not missing the objecting flicker across the other's face. "Why else wait around? I'm not so important. Just another fucked up soldier. But we all are, aren't we? Even you."

Roach felt a burden lift within him as the words slurred from his mouth.

"You're not perfect. You're not as inhuman as you pretend to be. That's what I admire about you. You're brave, but not stupid. You have fears – I know you do – but you can handle them. I can't. Not without the pills, and even those don't get rid of the problems. All they do is cover them, enough for me to sleep at night.

"You're right. I shouldn't be a soldier, any more than I shouldn't be human. It wasn't really a choice I had; it just came to be. Had nowhere else to turn in life. And before you know it, here I am. I feel strongly about what we do, maybe not as strongly as you, but I at least feel like I have a purpose. For that, the pain is nothing.

"If you want to take that away from me, then go ahead. I don't regret it, though. Maybe if I was more dedicated to my job, I would have chosen the logical path. Maybe it sounds stupid to you, but the other option seemed worse. Faceless lives don't mean as much to me. In a sense, you're all I have left. But you already know that. And you're still playing the part of the responsible soldier; I admire that, I really do. I couldn't.

"You told me that I shouldn't have saved you. That's fine, if you really feel that way. But, by those same standards, you shouldn't have bothered saving me."

Another sting of pain elicited a cringe from the sergeant, his face snapping sideways with the force of the lieutenant's swing. It was a half-hearted effort, he noted with a barely suppressed smirk, although the last thing he found this situation to be was humorous. It was just that he had been expecting much worse.

Before his eyes could fall shut in defeat, Roach was wrenched upwards yet again to meet the steely gaze reflecting his own. There was nothing within it that lacked certainty, nothing that spoke of the conflict boiling beneath. Just a sort of subdued determination that left nothing up to debate as Ghost bent down to further silence the unresisting sergeant.

After all, what was left to fight about?

Roach groaned as the hands embedded in his shirt pulled him forward again roughly, pressing him further into his superior. There was a sense of urgency to the contact, a certain degree of insecurity mixed with primal desire. It showed in the way the lieutenant bit down on his subordinate's bottom lip when not granted immediate access. It showed in the way that Roach succumbed so easily to the onslaught, returning the frantic gesture by knotting his fingers in his superior's jacket to bring the other closer. It showed through the rapidly increasing beeping of the heartbeat monitor as it droned on in the background.

It hurt, like the rest of him, Roach acknowledged as the lieutenant's tongue fought its way into his mouth. His spine throbbed at the tension, his head remained cloudy and aching under the effects of the drugs. But he was just as unwilling to relinquish his grasp as the lieutenant, just as close to tears from the emotional pain as well as the physical.

He had meant what he said – that he didn't see his life as one worthy of salvation, that things had just gotten too fucked up to handle anymore. He hadn't thought through the possibilities of his survival, hadn't taken into account the lieutenant's reaction; although he had always expected the yelling, the anger, the regret, Roach almost couldn't believe the smothering desperation. Not because he was slowly suffocating underneath it, but because there was so much of it within himself as well. It had been too long since he'd felt much of anything besides anxiety. Too long since he'd had contact with another human being that didn't result in violence. Hell, he couldn't even remember the last time.

The lieutenant was making sure he wouldn't forget.

Ghost broke away only when the need to breath outweighed all else; Roach had been determined to suffocate. And now, face-to-face again, there seemed to be so much more to explain, yet so little motivation to do so.

"You're a bloody imbecile," the Englishman murmured, moving to rest his forehead on the sergeant's slumped shoulder, the venom missing in the words. "Always so fucking reserved until I need you to just shut up. It's your own damn fault, but don't you dare try to fucking apologize again."

At what felt like a permanent loss of words, Roach made no effort to reply, just tightened his grip on the lieutenant. It felt surreal to be holding each other like this, when only weeks ago they hadn't even been on speaking terms. The persistent ache in his limbs was a constant reminder of how close he had come to never feeling so…he couldn't even describe the spectrum of emotions warring within him. Since when had things reached this point? Since when had friendship become obsolete to the both of them? How was it possible to communicate so clearly now when their words and actions in the past had done nothing to divulge the similarity of their desires?

Yet, on the other hand, hadn't those looks always been there?

The warmth above him convinced Roach that such inquiries didn't really matter – never had. If it had taken a near death experience to force those feelings to the surface, he wasn't going to dwell on the unresolved conflicts of the past. Judging from the lieutenant's continued proximity, none of it had even crossed his mind.

"If you had died," Ghost raised his head only enough to press his lips to the corner of the sergeant's mouth, the action not hiding the lingering tremors in his voice, "I would have never forgiven you."

Roach couldn't have missed the quiet sob that escaped him.

"So many friends, I've watched die. So many goodbyes I never got to say. And you were about to do the same to me as all of them."

The accusations did nothing but incite the sergeant to shift to recapture the lieutenant's mouth, this time taking immediate control of the situation. His forcefulness was hindered somewhat by his limited mobility, but the Englishman surrendered surprisingly without difficulty, relinquishing what little control he had left to his subordinate.

"Next time," Ghost murmured between breaths, "Don't push me out of the way."

Roach all but ignored his mutterings, removing a hand from the lieutenant's shirt to fist unruly blond locks and press their faces closer together. Imitating his superior, Roach bit down on the Englishman's bottom lip, albeit more savagely than he had perhaps intended, as the kiss took on a distinctly more coppery taste. If Ghost had found a problem with that, he didn't voice it, as the groan that escaped his lips sounded anything but angry. It irritated Roach all the more that he didn't have the strength to flip the lieutenant over to pin beneath him; he knew that the moment the other released his hold on him, he'd be helplessly confined to the mattress again. The temptation to shift his hand lower down the lieutenant's body was somewhat thwarted by this realization, but he refused to relent his current ministrations regardless.

It wasn't until he attempted to pull himself further upwards that the pain reminded him of why exactly he was still strapped to a hospital bed.

Something in his demeanor must have alerted the lieutenant because the Englishman quickly came to his senses and withdrew from the sergeant, albeit with reluctance. Roach didn't have enough strength to hold on as Ghost slowly pulled back; he let himself collapse backwards with a sharp inhale, the haziness that had been dulling the throbbing along his spine now largely absent.

"Get some rest," Ghost muttered, his head turned towards the door in what seemed to be embarrassed avoidance. "I'll tell the doctor you need another dose."

Roach was tempted to reach over and pull the lieutenant back, maybe say something stupid like _'Don't leave'_, but it seemed easier to just remain silent and refocus on the pain. He hadn't a clue as to how to proceed, and neither did his superior. But the general anxiety that had been building had somewhat dissipated, and that was all the encouragement the sergeant needed to keep on breathing.

"Thank you," he mumbled, closing his eyes again to block out the light.

The gloved hand that found its way over his own confirmed the only thing he needed to know.

"Yeah; I like that one better than 'I'm sorry', but it shouldn't be _your_ line."

"I'm-"

"Oh, shut it," the words were accompanied by a faint squeeze of the lieutenant's palm, and only a barely audible laugh, "Just focus on getting better. We'll need you back at base ASAP. You've left us with a lot more work to do."

Roach couldn't suppress the twinge of a smile pulling at his lips, as he returned the flippant attitude in his response, "Sure thing, Lieutenant."

As if the world hadn't just been lifted from his shoulders.

* * *

**A/N: Progress, anyone? I love progress.**

**So, ignore the fact that – realistically – a grenade probably would've killed both of them and pretend along with me that Roach was able to tackle them safely out of the way. It was, erm, a mini grenade? Okay, okay, it doesn't really matter, but I wanted to clear that up anyways. I'm way too rational to be writing fanfiction, haha.**

**Anyways, this story probably won't last longer than a few more chapters (even _I'm_ reaching the level of maximum angst and melodrama), and I hope to have those finished before all of you die. Just so you know that I care. **

**BUT, I do want to ask something: should I create an alternate ending for this story in addition to the one presented in the prologue? I'm actually not much of a tragedy person (I just like lots and lots of anguish), but I kinda already set myself up for this one. If you guys think that would just be too un-angsty for ya, then I'll forget about it. But I just wanna see what the general opinion is; I wouldn't be changing the ending completely, just posing a slightly less depressing conclusion alternately. I feel really bad for making the characters go through all of this just to die. XP**

**Thanks, as always, for the support. :)**

**And sorry, again, for the wait. :P**


	7. Chapter 6

**A/N: Wo~hoah! It's been a **_**loooong**_** time. I must have some pretty awful writer's block to take over six months to update a story, huh? And that's seriously the best excuse I can come up with for taking this long. Gah, I feel terrible. So I'll shut up and get on with it instead. (Is anyone even still reading this, lol?)**

**Thanks for reviews for the last chapter from: **_**xDoItForTehLulz, Featherine Augustus Aurora, Butterscotch MacTavish**_** (love that name), **_**ChaosGarden, Aeta Plokha, T-K, Simon-Ghost-Riley, Jackie (x5!), SeptumPellucidium, Augustus Shepard, Ghostriley, Sadistic-Kit, Bu1u, well that was unexpected**_** (dat name), **_**Nioba, Zoey H, Pedobeth, DeRez, **_**and **_**Simple Shimmers**_**. You all are incredible and leave wonderful reviews and deserve a way better author than me!**

* * *

He knew that the searing pain was a sort of warning sign– a "hey, maybe this isn't the best idea" from his brain – but that didn't stop Roach from struggling to his feet aside the hospital cot that had been his jailor for the last couple of weeks. He was getting too damn twitchy, lying prone all this time, his state of consciousness depending on the amount of drugs hooked up to his bloodstream at the moment.

The good news was: the surgery had gone well. Aside from what would probably be a few nasty scars marring his back, he was practically guaranteed a full recovery.

The bad news was: said recovery was still several weeks away – at least until he would be officially permitted to hold a gun for Task Force 141 again. And not before he had been fully assessed psychiatrically to affirm that he still had the sanity for the job.

A few weeks ago, that may have been a major cause for concern. That was _before_ he had slept (in what was usually a peacefully drug-induced state) for at least five days' time. Now, his stability had never felt so reliant on getting his finger back on a trigger.

The nightly monitoring of his condition had ceased after the first couple of days, the ones where his life had been a kinetic force – here one minute, easily gone the next – before they had transferred him back to base to begin recovery. He didn't remember much of it, sans the first time he had truly regained a stable form of consciousness and the lieutenant had been there, waiting for him.

He hadn't been the least regretful of irritating his injuries enough to require some pretty heavy shit to get to sleep that night.

Distantly, he wondered if it was even possible he didn't have some sort of masochistic bent after all.

Finding himself semi-stumbling towards the door in a haze of what felt like that fourth can of beer, only with the giddy stupor replaced by a throbbing spine and a slight but irritating headache, his mind quickly negated the thought.

_There is nothing normal about you_.

Maybe for the better, he reminded himself; the lieutenant was far from normal himself. If they both weren't irreversibly fucked up, what would be the basis of their understanding? Hell, the man even kissed like a tortured soul.

Not that his brain needed reminding of that now, when he was trying so hard to grasp the door handle with the coordination his limbs had yet to regain.

The door gave way after a couple attempts, and he found himself in a deserted corridor, aimless. At around three in the morning, where was there to go? A breath of fresh air sounded nice until he remembered hearing about the sandstorm that had kicked up around the base earlier in the day; a faceful of desert didn't exactly strike him as appealing at the moment, especially since he was wearing nothing but a faded pair of sweatpants. Shirts had yet to become bearable to his wounds.

Choosing instead to switch off his thoughts, Roach let his feet guide him to an unknown destination. Which of course meant somewhere he'd be nothing but an annoyance at this time of the night, but hey, it was the first time since the explosion that he'd been able to plant his feet on the ground without being forced back off of them. That was something in itself to celebrate.

So it was completely on a whim that when he passed the usually abandoned, clunky old computer lounge (filled with dated technology salvaged from the scrap heap of society for reasons unknown and unappreciated by the soldiers subjected to using it), he noticed a glow emitting from inside the unhinged door and felt curiously compelled to discover its source. Careful not to make a sound, Roach nudged the wood aside to peer in.

A lone figure slouched before one of the ancient monitors, profile silhouetted by artificial light. It was a posture of exhaustion, as evidenced by the elbows planted on either side of the keyboard, by the chin resting on intertwined fingers, by the convex curve of the spine. Exhausted, but contemplative. Or, at least conscious, judging by the occasional tap of keys and click of the mouse.

The glow of the screen granted just enough visibility to confirm what Roach had already suspected, given the hour and somewhat isolated location, and without much thought, he maneuvered out of the doorway and into a chair near it, content with silence for the moment. It gave him less to explain and more time to think, without being alone.

Why Ghost was awake and still working this late, he could only attribute to the lieutenant's impeccable work ethic and tendency to keep odd hours. He could recall at least one time over the last week that he had awoken somewhere in the middle of the night, only to find the Englishman by his bedside, tapping away on his laptop, and had drifted back into unconsciousness to the soothing sound of the keys.

Why Ghost wasn't in his own room and on his own laptop, he could only speculate. Not that it really mattered, anyways. There were far more important things jockeying for position in his mind.

Like, an increasingly complicated relationship with a man who'd been nothing more than his superior and occasional friend until recently. Like, how he was beginning to wonder if his previous lack of success with the female population had been an overlooked precursor to these developments. Like, how he had ended up with full-torso bandages and a guilty conscience to begin with.

Maybe it was all just a little _too_ much to think about.

In the scope of things, none of it had an effect on the job he'd be expected to resume once recovered. None of it was really necessary to understand in order to shoot a gun; individual conflicts would always be of secondary concern for their breed of soldier. No one understood that more than he did, past and present, probably future. Not for the first time, he wondered if he had perhaps chosen the wrong career path, but heck, what else was he good at? Decisions had never been a particular strong suit of his, but he certainly was getting better at that. He had sacrificed a hostage to save a friend. Sacrificed a chance to stop the buy guys for the chance save one of the good.

Selfish or not, he couldn't regret that. Maybe that was improvement. Maybe that meant it was okay not to be overthinking things all the time - things like pulling the lieutenant closer when rationality told him to push away. Disregarding the complications of starting something emotional in a world where emotions were a weakness. It would've been so much easier to write off if Ghost hadn't mirrored his hopes, impulses, raw desire for something more. If he had pushed when Roach had pulled, things wouldn't be so confusing.

Yet he was sleeping better than ever. Part of that could be attributed to the drugs pumping through his bloodstream, part to the fact that there had been little to do _but_ sleep. Still, the nightmares were fewer and in between bouts of the closest he had come to peace since donning his uniform. Waking up to see disheveled sandy hair and an exhausted but honest smile every once in a while had only helped. Which led him to care less about how or why or when any of this had happened and more about how amazing it felt. How he could reach out and tousle that hair without concern over what it meant or how it'd be interpreted. How he could, but he wouldn't, because just watching the lieutenant, both engaged and disinterested in whatever task was at hand, was satisfying enough for the time being.

If life had felt more like this before, he'd probably be married with a couple kids by now instead of in the middle of a war. Maybe he'd have been okay with working off the rest of his days in a cramped cubicle, if it meant the sort of stability he felt now. Maybe his biggest problem would've been paying off the mortgage of some cookie-cutter suburbanite home.

Maybe that was a bit of a stretch.

Regardless, Roach found himself grinning, nearly on the verge of laughter as he thought about the absurdity of it all. The reality was that he was here, still breathing, and still able to smile about the lot life had thrown him.

Right now, he was comfortable with leaning over the front of a grimy plastic chair, stuck in the middle of godforsaken nowhere, his chin resting on crossed arms, his thoughts pleasantly positive for the moment. He was fine with letting his eyes drift shut - even if all he had been doing all day was sleeping - and simply listening to the periodic tapping of the keyboard and subtle click of the mouse. It felt right, natural even. Unhurried. Relaxed.

He'd have plenty of time to think about things later.

* * *

The fact that he was up this late, parked in front of a crummy computer, neglecting a rare opportunity for a good night's sleep – all for a pointless game of Solitaire – surprised even Ghost himself. With all the all-nighters he'd been pulling lately for work, it was astounding that he still was having trouble sleeping. That he'd resorted to playing computer games in favor of research or finishing a report really said something about his state of mind.

If anything, now was the time to be ramping up his efforts. With all the leads they had lost and all the ones they had yet to verify, it was crucial to be on the top of his game. Yet following the wake of his team's failure to secure the hostage's safety (and the shock of nearly losing the sergeant – days of fear, anger, grief all rolled into one), Soap had temporarily removed him from the majority of his duties, citing the need for recuperation. It was a subtle display of compassion, concern for the soldiers he was ultimately responsible for, that didn't go unappreciated by the lieutenant. Still, it left him with more time than he knew what to do with, and that resulted in ridiculous things like playing Solitaire in the middle of the night or spending hours in the hospital ward, watching over a man he'd given up on trying to rationalize his attachment to.

Whatever bizarre relationship they had, whatever had led up to it, really took a backseat to his overall concern for the sergeant's well-being. If he was to be honest with himself, Ghost knew that Roach was far too affected by this lifestyle to maintain it. Any other soldier he would've recommended for dismissal, would've reported the signs of instability when he'd first noticed them.

But Ghost had always been more selfish than considerate. His detachment had served him well in his profession of choice, his soft spots few and insignificant compared to his tendency to act logically and with little emotion. Losing people – friends, comrades, what little family he'd once had – only had reinforced the nature already inherent in him. Which is why the unusual fondness he had for Sanderson - that rare and inexplicable urge to drop the façade before him and acknowledge that, yes, he'd been scarred long ago, too – perplexed him. Which is why he had kept the sergeant at his side, regardless of what he knew was truly best for the young soldier.

Selfish, selfish, selfish. But not without care.

Following the accident, he _had_ changed his mind. He had steeled himself to send Roach packing, to oust him to whoever could authorize his discharge, because losing someone else seemed like a worse fate than solitude. And all it had taken to crumble his resolve was defiance from a man pumped with too many drugs to think straight. A metaphorical bitch-slap from a depressed ICU patient. And a kiss, a refection of his own buried intensity, that had ripped away his weakened resolution completely.

He felt like a hormonal teenager all over again: confused, excited, and a little bit nervous. It drove him crazy, in more ways than one. But that wasn't exactly a bad thing, just something he was trying not to overthink.

Ghost yawned, covering his mouth lazily, and pushed away from the screen. The plastic chair protested the sudden shift in weight to no avail; if anything, the lieutenant slumped back further, bringing a hand up to rub at his slightly blurry vision. All the cards were starting to look the same and he'd been on a pretty bad losing streak for the last ten or so minutes. Coupled with random and somewhat embarrassing thoughts, he was starting to wonder if trying to sleep might be a better idea after all.

The monitor went dark with the press of a button and the Englishman moved to stand, rolling his shoulders in a feeble attempt to loosen muscles sore from inactivity. He had pushed the chair back in place and turned to leave before he paused, noticing for the first time the figure sprawled over a chair by the door. Closer inspection revealed the telltale bandages criss-crossing the sergeant's torso, the scruffy appearance but relaxed expression of someone still doped up on pain medication, and a measured breathing rate that indicated sleep had already set in.

The lieutenant stood there for a minute, wondering how long ago Roach had snuck in, why he'd said nothing. Then he wondered how he hadn't noticed, because the chair creaked when he slung an arm around the sergeant – careful not to disrupt the bandages - to hoist him off of it. Then he wondered if they'd been feeding him at all when he felt how thin and weightless the American had become, how easy it was to pick him up and how limply he sagged in his arms.

Then he told himself to just shut up and bring the sergeant back to the medical bay, further thoughts be damned. There was no deeper meaning to any of this, there was no reason for added concern. There was nothing more to it than laying Roach back on the springy cot, pulling a couple sheets back over him, and leaving. Nothing more.

But Ghost was reaching down, tentatively, to brush the bangs away from the sergeant's face. He looked so much younger like this, fast asleep and removed from trouble. The lieutenant couldn't help but to wonder what the expression would look like awake, perhaps accompanied by an optimistic smile. That was a little too much to ask for, but it didn't stop him from thinking about it all the same. When his brain reminded him that he'd decided not to think about any of this right now, he was already leaning down and pressing his lips to a creaseless forehead, already smiling at the thought.

For the moment, he was grateful enough to be alive. Grateful that they were both alive. And perhaps a little optimistic for the future himself.

It was never too late to hope, right?

* * *

**A/N: So that was a short chapter that pretty much got us…nowhere. But sorting-out-the-feelings chapters are important, too! So, sorry if the wait has been a little disappointing, but this gets me on track again for the next installment.**

**(I just realized that there's not a single line of dialogue in this entire chapter…2800ish words with no dialogue took a lot of time to write -_-)**

**Actually, this chapter was one of the more difficult ones to write so far, only because it was nothing BUT feelings and thoughts and completely action-less (and writing action is one of my favorite things to do); also, switching character perspectives is never exactly easy, especially if you're trying to parallel thoughts on the same event, but I felt it was necessary to bring things full circle here. Quite a lot to live up to the last chapter, though. I tried my best. (feel free to tell me if it was a success or an utter failure)**

**Anyways, this story will likely not exceed 10 chapters (in total, not 10 more), but there was overwhelming support for the alternate ending, so I'm thinking very hard about that one! Thanks again for the prolonged support of my wonderful readers (seriously, I would've given up on this long ago without you guys), and as you know, reviews are **_**always**_** welcome. ;)**

**Also, if any of you have a question for me (about anything), feel free to PM me/write it in a review. I'll try my best to respond back; it's the least I can do for disappearing this long.**


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